Fifty Shades of Voldemort's Followers: Supervising Nobility
by scrumptiousinternetllama
Summary: A collection of fifty stories all revolving around Voldemort's followers. Death Eaters, Snatchers, werewolves and other magical creatures will be covered! Ratings will change with each entry but every story will have the rating a summary in the AN. Fifth entry: Fenrir has a job he does NOT want to do.
1. Listen Young Cub

**AN: Written for the Emotions Challenge – Annoyed, Character Appreciation Week Challenge - Fenrir Greyback, Diagon Alley II Bingo - #28 Lycanthropy, and the What Does This Remind You Of? Challenge!**

 **Famous Witches and Wizards Cards Challenge: 1,030**

 **Rating: T (Language and mentions of violence)**

 **Summary: Alecto shoves a lot of her duties onto Fenrir Greyback. This time, it is the task of looking after Draco Malfoy.**

Listen Young Cub

"Greyback!"

Fenrir let out a low growl at the nagging voice. Alecto Carrow seemed to think that she could summon him whenever she wanted—like he was a dog. He briefly wondered what she wanted, but the irritation of being addressed so callously made thinking difficult.

He was a werewolf, and that seemed to make it okay for the dim-witted cow to disrespect him. It should have been the opposite way around.

"What?" he asked, keeping himself in check for the sake of his pack. The Dark Lord had promised great things for them if they served him. That was the only reason Fenrir put up with the likes of Alecto Carrow.

"The Dark Lord wants Draco Malfoy to have a close eye kept on him. His father has failed quite a few times… The Dark Lord does not wish for his weak influence to affect Draco. After all, his task is important," she said.

"What does this have to do with me?" he asked. He hoped that the answer wasn't what he thought it was going to be.

"I want you to keep an eye on young Draco," she said with a smirk. Fenrir wanted to slap it off of her face. He was being assigned to _babysit_ a spoiled pureblood child. "You see, I have other, more important things to attend to." She was still wearing a smug, self-satisfied expression… and that pissed him off.

 _Think of the benefits for the pack, not yourself._

"Where is he?" he asked, hiding his smirk at the way Alecto jumped at his growl.

"In the back room, for now," she answered, quickly recovering herself.

Without bothering to ask any more questions, or excuse himself properly, Fenrir left the room, making sure to slam the door on his way out.

He entered the back room to find a bored looking Draco Malfoy. The boy's eyes flicked up to look at the newcomer—it was rather comical to see the way he immediately straightened up upon seeing who had entered. _This may actually be fun._

"Alecto said to keep an eye on you," he said, and then just for the comedy-value he added, "Do not misbehave." He had kept his tone threatening on purpose, and it had exactly the effect he desired.

"I won't," replied Draco. Fenrir was surprised to hear that the boy's voice was steady, even though the fear rolling off of him was an assault on the werewolf's nostrils. His response could actually be deemed as impressive given the pathetic standards he had for wizards.

The way the young Malfoy held himself was indicative of his upbringing, and it reminded him of the way the cubs in his pack tried to show him that they were brave. He felt himself soften at the thought of them and looked at the blond in a slightly more generous light. It wasn't his fault that one of the main influences in his life came from his parents, who were only too happy to spoil him. Perhaps he could even teach the boy a thing or two whilst he was supervising him.

"Good," he said. "You do realise why you are here?"

Draco nodded and said, "I am of the understanding that the Dark Lord is not pleased with some recent events."

"That's correct. The Dark Lord wants you and your father to be separate, for however long he sees fit, so he does not spoil you. I wish to teach you a lesson or maybe even a few; you seem far too sheltered to execute the task the Dark Lord has assigned you," he said with an eyebrow raised, daring the boy to reject his offer.

"What kind of lessons?" asked Draco, slowly.

"I think the first one should be how to kill someone—that is your task after all," he answered with a grin. Upon seeing the boy pale further than his usual skin tone he added, "I will only be telling you how it should be done; unfortunately, I cannot give you a practical demonstration."

Draco nodded, looking relieved. _How on earth was this boy supposed to murder one of the most powerful wizards there ever was?_

"To start off, you stalk your prey and watch their every move. Then, when you know their habits and have recognised any patterns in their behaviour, you wait. Once you spot a moment of vulnerability, you strike. I would recommend going straight for the throat and tearing it out—"

However, before Fenrir could finish his descriptions of what to do next, the door to the room slammed open and in walked a horrified Rodolphus Lestrange.

"What on earth did I just hear?" he demanded.

"I was teaching young Draco here about how you kill somebody since he has been tasked with it," he answered easily.

"That is not how wizards do things and you were not the one that was supposed to supervise Draco."

"You're right," said Fenrir. "However, I was of the belief that you wizards wanted to be… unchained—that you did not want to have to hide yourselves any longer—"

"We do not, but that doesn't mean that we wish to be so unreserved that it is improper," countered Rodolphus.

"Wizards aren't meant to be reserved or put in chains. Neither are werewolves or any other magical beings. It isn't good for us."

Rodolphus nodded at his argument, showing his agreement.

"Oh and you were also right about me not being the one who should have been supervising your nephew. Alecto Carrow seemed to have something she needed to attend to so she gave the job to me."

Judging by Rodolphus' facial expression, Alecto was in a lot of trouble.

"I assume that I am being relieved of my duties?" he asked, not bothering to conceal his grin.

Lestrange nodded, tight-lipped and Fenrir allowed himself to leave the room.

The last thing he heard before closing the door behind him was, "Your Aunt Bella will want to deal with Alecto Carrow; leaving you with a half breed was completely irresponsible."

The name-calling didn't bother Fenrir. He was just glad that Carrow was going to get exactly what she deserved.


	2. Dysfunctional

**AN: Written for the Convince Me Competition and the Ten Pairings Challenge!**

 **Weekly Character Appreciation Challenge – Barty Crouch Jr.**

 **Emotions Challenge - Agitated**

 **Famous Witches and Wizards Cards Challenge: 1,100 words.**

 **Rating: T**

 **Summary: Regulus and Barty are out on a mission. Two young men with dysfunctional families may find solace within each other.**

Dysfunctional (Regulus/Barty JR)

Barty was shivering. He had rejected Regulus' offered cloak but he seemed to be regretting it now.

"Barty," said Regulus. "Take the cloak; I honestly don't mind."

The younger man hesitated for a moment before reaching out and grabbing it. A cloud left his lips as he said a thank you.

The Dark Lord had expressly forbidden the use of any magic before they apprehended their targets. Apparently, it drew too much attention. Secrecy was of the upmost importance if they wanted to catch the Junior Undersecretary for the Minister of Magic. That meant no warming charms, a fact that Regulus and Barty had noticed very early on in their mission.

"Let's go then. We don't want to lose him," said Regulus once Barty had wrapped the cloak around himself.

He saw the slight hesitation before the younger man stood up and frowned. Barty had been particularly tense about this mission in the days leading up to it. Regulus was only worried that there was a possibility he would be deserted on the day.

He hadn't been, of course. The two of them were here, in the park they'd been tipped off their target was going to be at. Barty wasn't stupid; he knew he'd be killed if he tried to leave the Death Eaters' ranks. Regulus hoped that for Barty's sake, the Dark Lord hadn't noticed his recent disquiet.

"What has been wrong with you recently?" asked Regulus. The question had come out slightly harsher than he had wanted it to. Barty looked alarmed and Regulus had to quell the urge to say 'You can trust me.' That would make the younger man suspicious; all Death Eaters knew that trust could not exist between them. The fact that many of them had turned on their own families was a testament to the fact.

"Nothing," said Barty, staring straight ahead.

Regulus arched an eyebrow. He wasn't stupid. "Crouch, tell me before it eats you up inside. Either that will kill you or the Dark Lord will notice… and kill you."

Barty set his jaw. "I don't know what you think is—"

"What I _think_ is that you are hesitant to carry out this mission and I want to know why," hissed Regulus. "I will not stand for any weakness in someone I am working with on something as important as this. So _tell me_ , I'll fix it and we can carry on without any bother."

"You wouldn't understand," growled Barty.

"Don't use that tone of voice. You sound terribly like Greyback," he said, and before Barty could respond, he continued. "You would be surprised at what I could understand, Crouch."

Barty huffed. "Fine. If you want to know that badly, I'll tell you," he said.

There was a moment of silence.

"Tell me then," said Regulus impatiently.

"The… the man we are going to capture," he began.

There was another lengthy pause but, this time, Regulus restrained himself from making a comment.

"He's a friend of my father," he finished, taking a deep breath.

"You feel as if this would upset your father." It was a statement not a question, but all the same, Barty nodded. "Why do you care about what your father thinks?"

Barty kept his mouth shut.

 _Brilliant. When I do ask a question, he doesn't answer it._

"I asked you a question, Crouch."

"You don't know what it's like," said Barty.

Regulus rolled his eyes. "I probably do. And I never _will_ know if you don't tell me."

"You don't know what it's like to have a family like mine," he said. When Regulus didn't respond, he continued, seeming slightly angry. "You don't know what it's like to have a father that goes to work and doesn't return home till the early hours of the morning or not at all so you almost forget what his face looks like. You don't know what it's like to have a family that's…dysfunctional. And you certainly don't know what it's like to still love them after all they have put you through."

Whilst he was speaking, tears had entered his eyes and he had grabbed the front of Regulus' clothes. If he was honest with himself, Regulus was slightly surprised at the force Barty's hissed words held but he kept his expression unimpressed. "Actually, I do."

Barty snorted, using the fabric between his fingers to pull Regulus closer. "Just because you have a rogue broth—"

"I wasn't talking about him," said Regulus, cutting Barty off smoothly. He wasn't going to be intimidated so easily. "Although, now you mention him, there's him as well. My father is often out late at work and on the rare occasions he _is_ at home, his time is occupied by my mother. My delightful mother enjoys cursing my brother whenever she has breath to spare and sometimes I'm included when I don't live up to her expectations."

Looking at Barty's surprised face, he continued, glad that his words were having the effect he wanted them to. "And yet, I still strive to achieve all my parents want me to because, as you may have guessed already," he hissed, close enough to Barty that their lips almost brushed against each other. "I love them."

"I—I'm sorry," whispered Barty, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Tears still glistened on his cheeks. Regulus was surprised that they hadn't frozen over.

"Don't be," he said, feeling Barty's grip tighten.

And then, they both leaned closer. They allowed their lips to touch so slowly, it was almost agonising.

It was a small comfort for the two of them. Desperate hope of the possibility of affection in the harsh, snowy landscape they were in. There were trees, _bare_ trees in the park. There was only white flat ground. There were no frills, just bare, raw emotion as Barty finally let go of Regulus' clothes and moved his hands to his dark hair. He gripped the strands like they were his lifeline although it felt like the person they belonged to wasn't allowing him to breathe. He didn't want to breathe; right now, everything was perfect.

But they both knew that perfect things didn't last. They had destructed enough perfect things to know that.

So they parted.

And after their mission was done, their flushed cheeks were written off to the biting cold and their furtive glances at each other were excused as pride as the Dark Lord had rewarded them for their success.

Perfect things were always broken. So it was only best that they kept their secret hidden in the ugliness of their servitude.


	3. Fair Point

**AN: Pride of Portree  
** **Beater 1: Setting - Riddle Manor.  
** **Your story MUST begin and end with the same word.  
** **Optional Prompts: (quote) 'Green is not a creative colour.' - DHMIS, (dialogue) "On your marks, get set…drink!", (quote) 'I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.' – Pablo Neruda.**

 **Greek Mythology Category Competition - Erebus**

 **Famous Witches and Wizards Cards Challenge: 2,994 words**

 **Rating: T**

 **Summary: Evan receives his mark with Regulus. The two of them soon realise just what they signed up for.**

Fair Point

Evan glanced at the writing engraved in a rectangle of silver next to the front door of the manor, registering the name 'Riddle'. His breath hitched, but his steps didn't falter. His years in Slytherin had made him realise what was truly important in life. Ensuring the pure were protected was paramount. Nothing else deserved his time… and nerves took up time.

This building was the Dark Lord's home. And after today, Evan would be able to serve him.

The idea of wearing the mark sent a shiver of excitement through him. He would be bearing a coat of arms, representing what he loved.

Schooling his expression, Evan made his way through the large double doors.

He found himself in a dimly lit room. Presuming he was alone, he settled into a chair, only to find himself facing Regulus Arcturus Black.

The two of them knew each other from school. Although Evan wouldn't say they were friends, they had been part of the same social circle. Everybody knew you didn't make friends. Associating with people who benefitted you was what mattered; forming emotional attachments made it difficult to cut off ties when they were no longer useful.

"I haven't seen you since Hogwarts," said Regulus, smirking at him.

"So you haven't," said Evan. "Been up to anything interesting?"

"Nothing as interesting as this."

Evan shook his head. "I don't remember you being quite this sarcastic."

"I'm surprised you remember me at all, considering you never bothered to keep in touch," retorted Regulus.

Evan rolled his eyes. "You know as well as I do that when I said, 'Keep in touch', I couldn't have cared less about whether you actually did."

Regulus raised an eyebrow. "Fair point."

This was why they had gotten along in school. Both of them loved their pureblood ancestry, but they weren't so dim that they weren't aware of how pretentious some people were about it.

There was a pause and Evan couldn't help but feel impatient. Why was the Dark Lord taking so long?

It was then that they heard the scream. It rang out through the dark room and Evan froze in his seat, the sound of agony chilling him. He looked up to see that Regulus had paled, but when their eyes met, it was like an unspoken agreement formed between them. They weren't going to change their minds about joining.

They couldn't, really. Sitting in the Dark Lord's home wasn't the best place to change your mind about something like this. He would already be aware of their presence, so leaving would only put them in danger.

The sound cut off, and the click of the door opening caused Evan to sit up straighter. Turning to the doorway, he noticed Regulus' cool expression. It reminded him that he had to be collected.

"It's lovely to see two of my cousins here," said the woman at the door. Bellatrix had never been shy about her Death Eater achievements. Although Regulus and himself were Bella's cousins, they weren't related to each other. "Ready to get your marks?"

They nodded, not trusting themselves to speak, and Bellatrix chuckled, waving them into the other room.

Once inside, Evan was pushed into a seat by Bella. Regulus landed with a soft thump beside him.

Trying to regain some semblance of control, Evan fixed his robes and focussed on his breathing. When he felt more sure of himself, he looked up to find Bellatrix standing next to a high-backed chair. Sat on the chair was the Dark Lord.

Evan's eyes widened as he took in the dark brown hair and strong jawline. He could have been considered attractive if there wasn't an air of something Evan couldn't pinpoint surrounding him. Then he spoke, and Evan realised what it was: instability.

"Thank you for bringing them in, Bella," he said, snaking his arm around her waist. Evan could have sworn that she purred. The Dark Lord continued, this time addressing him and Regulus, "You wish to take my mark?"

Evan nodded. His gaze on the Dark Lord was so intent that he didn't notice Regulus doing the same.

"What do you think, Bella?" he asked, staring straight at the two men.

"My Lord, I think they are capable of serving you."

"I'm aware that they are your relatives. If I find that your answer was exaggerated due to familial bias, I will not be pleased." His eyes flashed dangerously and Evan suppressed a shudder. "Do you understand me, Bella?"

"Yes, my Lord," she said, glaring at Evan so intensely, he felt it was a threat.

He knew that incompetence would result in him being punished… or even in Bella being punished.

Then Bella told them to stand up and kneel before the Dark Lord with their heads down. "Lift your left arm up, Regulus," she instructed.

Evan wouldn't have realised that anything was happening if it wasn't for the small flash of green light and Regulus' screaming. Evan kept his head down, trying to focus on the marble flooring as Regulus writhed and twisted beside him.

He had always prided himself on keeping a cool head in tough situations but today was the ultimate test of his ability.

All of a sudden, the screams cut off and he heard the thud of Regulus hitting the floor, his breathing heavy.

"Bella, escort your cousin outside," said Voldemort. Evan heard a rustling of robes before the sound of Regulus being dragged across the floor met his ears. Was Regulus going to survive?

He had no time to worry about that as Voldemort said, "Raise your arm, Evan Rosier."

Evan complied, and felt the tip of a wand being pressed into his forearm before a pain like none he had experienced before tore through him. A scream was ripped from his throat and all that he could think was that he needed to get away. He needed the pain to stop.

After what felt like an age had passed, the wand was removed from his wrist and Evan slumped to the floor.

He was almost grateful to Bellatrix for dragging him out of the room.

The moment he felt fresh air hit him, Bellatrix let go of him and left him to recover on the grass.

He heard her footsteps fading away and flinched when a hand touched his back.

"It's me," someone muttered. Through the range of feelings he was experiencing, Evan managed to identify the owner of the voice as Regulus. "Do you think you'd be alright with Side-Along Apparation?"

Evan groaned, and Regulus seemed to deem it as a yes since his next question was: "Do you still live in Rosier Manor?"

When he had recovered enough to stand, Evan ground out a 'yes' and squeezed his eyes shut as the uncomfortable feeling of Side-Along Apparation took over his body.

Now, inside his home, Evan pulled out a bottle of Firewhisky and placed two cups on the table. Caught in his own misery, Evan hadn't noticed Regulus' haggard appearance. Apparating had not done anything to help his recovery.

The moment Evan filled his glass, Regulus grabbed it and downed it in one. Despite the sombre atmosphere, Evan couldn't help but remark, "Not even waiting for your host?"

Regulus gaped at him. "I can't believe that you have the energy to joke around. The biggest issue we're facing right now is not manners."

Evan downed his own drink before responding to Regulus' statement. "I know it's not, but what's the point in sitting here being miserable? We get to serve the Dark Lord now."

"He tortured us," hissed Regulus, looking around furtively as if someone might overhear.

"It was the process of getting the Dark Mark. No good thing comes easily," said Evan, pouring them both another glass. "Besides, it's a great honour to serve the Dark Lord; a tiny bit of—"

Regulus snorted, cutting him off. "Who told you that?"

"My father."

"And where is your father now?"

Evan rolled his eyes. "Just because my father is in Azkaban, it doesn't mean that serving the Dark Lord is any less of an honour." Turning serious, he continued, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring him into this."

Regulus shook his head. "I don't know if—"

"You don't know if you want to do this anymore? You can't even take a tiny bit of pain?"

"A tiny bit? Are you serious? I heard your screams from the garden," said Regulus, standing up so he was face to face with Evan.

"I have to admit that the pain is beginning to wear off," said Evan with a raised eyebrow. Regulus didn't intimidate him. "Perhaps that is the reason I'm so grievously understating the measure of it."

Regulus stared at him for a moment before huffing and turning around. Before he could storm away, Evan grabbed his shoulders and spun him back around to face him.

"What?" asked Regulus, scowling.

"I know I shouldn't be joking about it, but should we be sitting here, miserable, because the process of getting the Dark Mark was painful? We get to serve the Dark Lord now!"

Regulus shook his head and sighed. "Fair point," he admitted, and Evan grinned.

* * *

Evan fired off spell after spell at his opponent. The group of Aurors had intercepted their mission, and the night was full of screamed curses and the sound of bodies hitting the floor.

"Get down!" yelled Regulus.

Evan ducked, watching as a jet of green light hit the wizard he had been fighting.

He didn't have time to thank Regulus as he was immediately engaged by another wizard. He had just cast the Killing Curse when he felt his left forearm burning. The Dark Lord was summoning him.

By the time he Apparated to Riddle Manor, there were already a number of Death Eaters there. Evan jumped as he felt someone grab his arm but quickly relaxed when he heard Regulus whisper:

"It was a victory. The Dark Lord may want to reward us."

Evan nodded slowly, processing his words. He tried to think of a reward that the Dark Lord would give them, but he couldn't remember it having happened before.

As long as none of them were punished, Evan wouldn't be complaining.

* * *

Walking up the path together, Evan and Regulus looked up at the grand house on the hill.

Evan shuddered as he remembered how eager he had been to join the Death Eaters. It was nothing like he had expected. But if being a Death Eater was enough to ensure that their cause was achieved, Evan could put up with it.

"Ready to go inside?" asked Regulus with a smirk.

Evan laughed. "Do we have a choice?"

"Fair point," said Regulus. Evan just rolled his eyes and they continued walking up the garden path.

Once inside, they made their way to the drawing room, where already, there was a lot of noise.

"I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too," a voice lamented.

"Lestrange," Regulus muttered, looking disgusted. "The Dark Lord must not be here; if he was, he wouldn't have let himself get so inebriated."

Evan looked over at Rabastan. He was sat in an armchair with a drink in his hand, looking entirely miserable. Before Evan realised what had happened, a drink was shoved towards him.

Altogether, everyone said, "On your marks, get set… drink!" And they downed their drinks, laughing raucously.

Evan moved to the edge of the room to observe the gathering. He wasn't surprised to see Regulus already doing the same.

As Evan joined him, Regulus looked up at the green curtains with disdain clear in his eyes. "Green is not a creative colour," he remarked.

Evan snorted. "Where's your Slytherin pride?"

"It left me the moment we exited that castle for the last time."

"Fair point," said Evan, concealing a smirk by taking a sip of his drink.

Regulus laughed. "You need to stop doing that."

"Says the person who said it five minutes ago!"

"Fair point," said Regulus, and they both burst out laughing, shaking their heads.

* * *

Evan Apparated into Riddle Manor. Beads of sweat had appeared on his upper lip from the pain emanating from his forearm. He didn't know why his master was summoning him so relentlessly, but it couldn't be anything good.

He was about to enter the room he knew his master would be in when Bellatrix appeared before him and dragged him through herself. She had a look of pure venom on her face.

"Kneel," she hissed.

Evan complied, realising that he must be in the company of the Dark Lord. Everything, including the pain that was still coming from his left arm, was making him feel disorientated.

"Evan Rosier," said a voice that made the blood in his veins feel like it had turned to ice.

He fought to keep his voice steady. "Yes, my Lord?"

"I am aware that you are good friends with Regulus Black," said the Dark Lord.

Evan could practically feel the other man's eyes boring into him and he fought to keep his thoughts in line. Had something happened to Regulus?

" _This is so draining, Evan. I don't know if I can do this anymore."_

"Yes, my Lord."

"How long have you known Regulus?"

" _Don't say things like that, Regulus. It's not a question of whether you can or can't. You have to."_

"Since our years at Hogwarts, my Lord," answered Evan, trying to suppress the memories from the night before.

"So the two of you are close."

" _Evan, please. There might be a way that we can stop him."_

"Yes, my Lord."

"I assume, then, that Regulus confides in you?"

" _Don't be ridiculous, Regulus. He's the Dark Lord; there's no way to bring him down."_

"No, my Lord," answered Evan, trying not to flinch as he heard the Dark Lord shift in his seat. "We do not divulge anything that could compromise the other's social standing."

 _It isn't the Slytherin way to make oneself vulnerable to someone else._

"I am glad that you have such wits about you," said the Dark Lord.

" _There might be—"_

"Thank you, my Lord."

"Do you have any idea of his whereabouts? I summoned the two of you and only you answered."

" _You would be compromising your own safety as well as the safety of your family. Risking that for a 'might be' isn't the wisest idea."_

Where was Regulus? After their argument the night before, he had stormed out of Rosier Manor. Evan had assumed that he had returned to Grimmauld Place.

"None, my Lord. He visited me last night and left after a few drinks. I assume he returned home. I do not know why he hasn't answered your summons, my Lord."

All of a sudden, he felt the Dark Lord trying to enter his mind. Despite most requiring eye contact to perform Legilimency, the Dark Lord was one of very few that could enter one's mind without it. He was thankful that his face was facing the floor, otherwise his look of concentration might have given him away. He focussed all of his efforts into hiding the images of that last discussion, instead bringing forth the memories of the two of them drinking and laughing before everything had turned serious. The Dark Lord was skilled enough to see right through fabricated memories; misdirecting him with real ones was Evan's only option.

He felt the Dark Lord pull out of his mind and clamped his lips shut to stop a sigh of relief from escaping. But his relief was short lived as he heard Voldemort scream, "Crucio!"

The sheer force of the spell lifted his body from the ground. He couldn't contain his screams as the feeling of his bones being snapped and twisted wreaked havoc through his body. It was so intense that he felt as if he was being set alight and his body writhed and twisted before he fell to the ground again, landing on his arm with a loud cracking noise.

He felt a sense of déjà vu as Bellatrix dragged him out of the room, but when he was kicked into the garden, there was no Regulus waiting for him.

* * *

Two days full of anxiety, anger and fear later, Evan was summoned again. This time, the other Death Eaters were present. Scanning them all quickly, Evan couldn't see Regulus among them.

The door opened and everyone kneeled, knowing that the Dark Lord had entered.

"Bella, join me. I would like you to announce the news," said the Dark Lord. His voice sounded strained; it was clear that he was holding back. Perhaps Bellatrix noticed too, for she wasted no time in hurrying up to him. Then again, that wasn't unusual behaviour for her.

 _Good or bad news?_

Evan could sense the anticipation building in the room, but inside he felt sick, hoping that it wasn't anything terrible.

"Regulus Black is dead!" she began.

The shock in the room was palpable. All Evan wanted to do was leave; he couldn't stay there any longer. His own words came back to him, mocking him: _It's not a question of whether you can or can't. You have to._

Bellatrix continued, "He was murdered by the Ministry's Aurors and the Order."

Evan would have felt for them if they hadn't been Regulus' murderers. From the sound of Bella's voice and the way the atmosphere in the room had shifted, everyone was going to be on their tails. They all, especially himself, wanted vengeance for Regulus' death.

"Your task now," said the Dark Lord, taking over, "is to avenge your fellow Death Eater." He paused for a moment and Evan felt his gaze on him. "Be merciless."

 _It would only be fair._

The Dark Lord swept out of the room and everyone stood up, letting out a raucous war cry. The first to leave the manor and avenge Regulus' death was Evan.


	4. I Will Follow You Into the Dark

**AN: I do not own the Harry Potter universe. I am simply borrowing it for a fic. Enjoy!**

 **Written for the Fanfiction Tournament Competition, the Doing Time in Azkaban Competition, and the Chapter Titles Challenge (#64).**

 **Characters: (Scabior, Rabastan L.)**

 **Rating: T**

I Will Follow You Into the Dark

Scabior sat, curled up in the corner of his cell. Given that over the past few days his permanent residence had been plunged into a seemingly perpetual cold, he guessed that it was winter. That meant he had been in Azkaban for… a year—or something near to that. He'd lost track of time… some time ago.

It was always freezing cold in his cell, and given that Dementors passed by at least four times a day it wasn't a surprise. The despair they brought along was all-consuming, and only because he was alone did Scabior allow himself to cower and whimper. He could hear other criminals—mostly Death Eaters—doing the same.

He wasn't a Death Eater. No, he had be sent to Azkaban after breaking into the Department of Mysteries—and selling on a few items he had stolen from there. Of course, it had been covered up by the Ministry; it would be both a scandal and embarrassment for them so his imprisonment had been kept a secret. There weren't many that would miss him, and those who would, wouldn't risk their own necks to come and save him, so he had resigned himself to a long time in Azkaban.

Unfortunately, Azkaban hadn't been as easy to endure as he had first believed.

He sneered at his own naivety, but quickly brought his knees to his face with a whine. A sudden onset of crippling fear had enveloped him and he grunted with the effort to resist the feeling of hopelessness the Dementors induced.

A rattling and clanging met his ears and he stiffened. This was a new sound to him, but somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, he could recognise it.

 _He shook off the hand that was clamped down on his shoulder, putting on a brave face. This place was much more sinister than he had previously thought it would be, and the guards were opening the cell with a horrible rattling and clanging. If the hairs on his arms weren't stood up already, they would have risen at the sound._

 _"There's your new home," said one of the guards. To Scabior, his grin seemed slightly feral. Perhaps that was the result of remaining around this place for too long._

 _He shouted as they shoved him into his cell, and as they walked away from one commented: "He's stick-thin but he's got a lot of life in him."_

 _The one who had the feral grin laughed; it sounded animalistic. "He won't last long. There's been bigger men than him who've come out half-starved and on the edge of death."_

 _"He seems like he's got some strength in him. I'd bet he'll last longer than a year."_

 _"How much?"_

 _Their voices muted as they moved further and further away._

Scabior never knew if they had put money on his name, but now, his head out of moments in the past, he saw someone stood in the doorway.

He watched as the stranger was pushed in; he didn't make a fuss.

Scabior tried to move towards the doorway, but he felt too weak to drag himself more than a few steps and besides, the cell door was already being closed—leaving him with his new cellmate.

"Why are you here?" asked the new prisoner, looking at Scabior through the strands of his dark hair.

 _He certainly didn't waste any time._

His dark eyes bored into Scabior as he licked his dry lips before speaking. "Why are you?" His voice was scratchy from disuse, but his words were clear enough.

"Death Eater," answered the other man quite simply. He looked the very image of sophistication, and Scabior wondered if he would get to see the other man's hair matted and dirty, his chiselled face sunken and gaunt. For the moment, he looked too clean to be one of Voldemort's fanatic followers. Then again, it was clear he was a pureblood.

"What's it like outside?" asked Scabior.

The Death Eater frowned, and pointed out that he hadn't answered his first question.

Scabior laughed, it sounded more like a bark, and said: "Well, the Minister 'erself said I was a 'delinquent ragamuffin of the worst kind' in the trial."

The Death Eater chuckled, but his eyes were interested—and slightly crazed. "I don't remember a trial like that," he said.

Scabior smirked. "It was a private trial."

The Death Eater's eyes were even more keen now, and Scabior waited for the inevitable question. "Now, what did you do to make Bagnold call you a delinquent ragamuffin and give you a private trial?" asked the Death Eater. His voice was low and Scabior suppressed a shiver; he wasn't sure if the feeling that had crept up his spine was because of the cold.

Scabior laughed again, the sound beginning to return to its normal state, before he had been captured. "The Department of Mysteries 'ad a surprise visit—and some people got… artefacts from there at an expensive price."

Rabastan smirked. "Well, it would only be fair to price such items at a high price."

Scabior was amused, but the emotion was quickly diminished as a wave of anguish washed over him—and from his facial expression, it was clear that the Death Eater felt it, too.

"My sister-in-law loves them," he ground out.

Scabior was confused, and then he realised. He was talking about the Dementors.

After the Dementors had passed, Scabior shook with the effort of trying not to curl up like he usually did. He could hear the Death Eater's pants and a cackling from somewhere far off. Allowing his back to hit the wall, Scabior stretched his legs to recover them after keeping them stiff, (so they didn't draw up to his chest).

"Fucking 'ell," breathed Scabior once he gained the strength to speak.

His cellmate remained silent.

"Who's laughing?" he asked, not expecting an answer as the cackling continued.

"My sister-in-law," said the Death Eater.

"She's mental."

The Death Eater only gave a pained grin, showing two rows of perfectly straight white teeth.

It felt like an age had passed before there was any more conversation.

"I'm Rabastan."

Scabior turned around to the Death Eater whose pale face was still visible in the darkness, and said: "Well then, Rab. You never told me told me what it's like outside."

Rabastan's brow furrowed at the abbreviation Scabior had made. "It's cold," he answered.

Scabior rolled his eyes. "I'm not that thick; that's obvious."

"It's snowing."

Scabior's eyes widened. "What's it like—to feel snow?"

It was evident that Rabastan was amused by his sudden change in demeanor. Scabior couldn't help it; he craved the knowledge of what life was like outside of the four walls he had been enclosed in for a year. He had not felt the snow in a long time.

"It feels cold," answered Rabastan. He was smirking, obviously enjoying Scabior's barely-veiled desperation.

"You know what I meant, mate," said Scabior, his voice was feeling strained from using it so much after not using it at all for so long.

Instead of answering, Rabastan ran his tongue over his finger and stuck it in the air for a few moments.

 _What's he doing?_

Somehow, Scabior was amazed to see, the Death Eater had the strength to walk over to him.

 _Well, he's only been here one day._

Something cold and wet broke Scabior from his thoughts and he yelped, making Rabastan laugh. The bastard had put his saliva on him.

Putting his clean face close to Scabior's, Rabastan whispered: "That's how it feels: cold and wet."

Scabior moved his finger over the spot where Rabastan had left his spit; it came away wet, and he took their close proximity as an advantage, smearing the saliva right back on Rabastan's face.

The slight madness in the Death Eater's eyes grew, but the overall impression was one of him being impressed. "You have a lot of courage doing that," said Rabastan.

Scabior smirked, but gasped as one of Rabastan's hands reached for his throat.

"Sometimes, courage can be foolish," he said. Loosening his grip, and rubbing small circles on Scabior's neck, he continued: "Now, I like you, but I'd be careful to not get too…" Here, Rabastan trailed off, trying to think of the right word.

"Cheeky?" offered Scabior.

The grip tightened. "Comfortable."

"Fair enough."

Scabior felt a sense of both relief and loss as Rabastan let go of his neck. Now, he could see how he would be a Death Eater.

The rest of the night passed in silence, and Scabior tried to relax. The cell was hard enough to relax in with the wintry chill, but with a head full of wicked tongues and clever fingers, it was even more difficult.

Somehow, he must have managed it, as Rabastan was pushing him awake, telling him that there was a meal waiting for them. Scabior groaned and shut his eyes against the dim light of day.

Then something cold and wet touched him, and he jumped awake. He knew exactly what it was.

Rabastan's face loomed over him, grinning like he wasn't imprisoned in a miserable shit-hole. As Scabior reached to do exactly what he had done yesterday, Rabastan grabbed his hands, pinning them above his head.

"Remember, what I warned you about yesterday," he said, still grinning, but Scabior could hear the warning in his voice. He had no doubt that Rabastan would carry through with his threat, and he had no desire to find out just what the Death Eater would do.

And as Rabastan's hands let go of his wrists and he sat up, Scabior felt that same sense of loss and relief from the night before.

He turned to his plate, edged with frost, and ate the usual tasteless old gruel.

* * *

 _Left behind. Left behind. Left behind. No one followed to find you. No one followed to find you. Forgotten. You've been forgotten. You were left behind. No one bothered to look for you._

The Dementors passed and Scabior gasped, taking deep breaths as if he had been underwater for an age. Rabastan, beside him, was paler than usual, but he still recovered faster than his cellmate.

"They affect you more," commented Rabastan.

"They'll affect you more the longer you're here," groaned Scabior.

The Death Eater smiled, and shook his head.

"How are you still smiling after that?"

Rabastan laughed and Scabior decided that he was entirely mad. "The Dark Lord is going to release us," he said.

"Us?" asked Scabior.

"Rod, Bella, Barty and I—we remained loyal to him until the very end. The Dark Lord rewards those who are loyal to him generously."

Scabior listened intently to Rabastan's reverent tone. The other man seemed to have respect for no one; in his mind, it was clear he thought that he was above them. But clearly, this rule didn't apply to the Dark Lord.

"Who are Rod, Bella, and Barty?" asked Scabior, once their cell had lapsed into silence again.

Rabastan looked at him. "Rodolphus is my brother, Bellatrix is my sister-in-law, and Barty is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's son—a fellow Death Eater."

"Bellatrix's the one who cackles?" asked Scabior.

Rabastan chuckled. "Yes, she's the one who loves Dementors. She managed to get them on the Dark Lord's side earlier in the war; I still don't know how she did that."

"So, this Dark—" Scabior stopped himself, realising that it sounded like a disrespectful way to address the wizard—and Merlin knew that Rabastan seemed like he would take Scabior's head off of his shoulders for doing so. "When is the Dark Lord going to release you?" he asked, instead.

Rabastan hadn't even noticed. "He will when the time is right. I trust him completely; he'll find us, his most loyal servants, and ensure we live lives that are content until the end of our days."

The idea sounded fascinating, and Scabior couldn't help but think the Dark Lord was an excellent master to serve. He had always preferred to work for his own gain, but this was the one time he had ever heard of someone so well-rewarded for working under someone.

"The Dark Lord's generous," commented Scabior, still fascinated.

Rabastan's head spun to face him. "Are you a Death Eater? I don't recognise your face—then again, we wear masks."

Scabior shook his head, startled by the sudden reaction his words had elicited from Rabastan.

At his answer, Rabastan's expression of confusion changed to a smirk again. "Would you like to be one?"

Scabior thought about it for a moment, and heard the Death Eater move over to him. The presence of the other man helped make his decision.

As he was making up his mind, Rabastan whispered: "Would you follow me?"

Scabior looked up and said: "I'd follow the Dark Lord."

Rabastan's eyes gleamed; he was pleased with the answer he had been given. "You would still have to follow me. The Dark Lord would want you to learn from one of his most loyal servants, after all."

"Then I'd follow you," said Scabior, looking directly into those dark eyes.

He would follow Rabastan, if only for gain from a master. He would follow Rabastan for that wicked tongue, and those clever fingers and the strong hands they belonged to. He would follow Rabastan because that meant a master who wouldn't forget him, and a man who would always be guiding him—who would always be with him.

He would follow Rabastan into the dark for all of those reasons, and to never experience that feeling of loss ever again—to always feel content with a hand around his neck, spit on his chin, and his arms pinned above his head.


	5. Supervising Nobility

**AN: I do not own the Harry Potter universe. I am simply using it for a fic. Enjoy!**

 **Seeker for the Montrose Magpies.**

 **Prompt: Incorporate Borgin and Burkes into your story.**

* * *

 **Supervising Nobility**

Fenrir walked down the dark alleyway, his eyes moving from left to right, right to left, and back again. This was no place to be caught unawares, and for a wizard of his reputation, such a thing would be downright humiliating.

The blonde in front of him was shuffling a bit too slowly for his liking. They could not afford hesitancy — not when the Dark Lord had tasked them with something so important, and certainly not when tonight was a full moon. The risk of disappointing the Dark Lord and incurring his punishment in the days following a transformation was enough to make Fenrir growl and shove the young cub — wizard — forward.

Draco Malfoy was an unimpressive specimen at best, but when he was placed amongst his blood-thirsty family counterparts (namely, Bellatrix Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, and even his mother, Narcissa Malfoy), he proved to be… even more pathetic. Fenrir didn't want to think of how he would shape up before a werewolf, when even in his human form, the boy could hardly walk straight with Fenrir watching him.

That was the reason Fenrir had been tasked with supervising the child — supervising being a fancy word for babysitting, in his opinion. It hadn't been entirely unexpected. Fenrir knew the Dark Lord thought his kind was worth less than the hem of his robes, but being tasked with something so low was an insult, to say the least. It was best that Fenrir remembered his only motivation for staying in the Dark Lord's service was the benefit of the pack — his pack. Hurt pride, or the centuries-long desire to prove the worth of his kind, could not, and would not, get in the way of the rewards they would reap from servitude.

But then again, that didn't mean he wasn't going to have a bit of fun with the boy.

It was almost amusing. The cubs in his pack craved his presence — soaked it up as he walked by — but this boy… he flinched every time Fenrir movement was a little sharper than the fluid pace he was keeping. The tales of his escapades had evidently reached the young Malfoy's ears.

That would only make removing the little colour that was left on his face even easier, thought Fenrir with a small chuckle. Draco jumped at the sound.

They reached the crooked little shop right on time, Fenrir barging past Draco — who let out a squeak — to be the first to enter. Borgin and Burkes was not an establishment for the light-hearted. If a shuffling little wizard were to enter and ask for the items they required at the immediacy the Dark Lord required them, he would be laughed out of the shop.

The door slammed on the wall behind it as it opened, making the items jingle satisfyingly. It was almost misleading. Should someone close their eyes, they could imagine them similar to the windchimes that were hung on the porch of Malfoy Manor. Fenrir only hoped Draco wouldn't be stupid enough to try to touch any of them. They looked innocuous enough, but each and every one of them were in Borgin and Burkes for a reason.

Chancing a glance behind him, he saw that yes, Draco was stupid enough to try to touch them.

"Boy!" he roared, and the young wizard almost jumped out of his skin, then scurried over to the counter where Fenrir was waiting.

A portly, balding wizard in an ostentatious set of robes did the exact same, paling as he saw his customer. Fenrir was glad. For starters, they could not afford a trip to St. Mungo's or the Cursed Artefacts department. Secondly, time was running short — not to mention, it would all be far too difficult to explain to an Undesirable. The blue sky outside was slowing fading to orange, and although the sight would usually induce euphoria, today, it caused his anxiety levels to spike.

"H-How can I help?" stuttered out Mr Borgin with wide eyes that looked bug-like in his round head.

"How can you help? Do you know who you are addressing?" asked Fenrir, deliberately keeping his voice low with a hint of an edge to it.

Mr Borgin gulped, beads of sweat visible on his forehead. The man's nervous attitude was quickly beginning to grate on Fenrir, and the sight of his Adam's apple bobbing was almost teasing him to try and tear it out.

Almost as if he had noticed what Fenrir's eyes were focusing on, Mr Borgin raised his hand to his throat slowly — as if that could even begin to protect him — and said, "Unfortunately, I do not, sir."

Fenrir smiled, letting the edges of his mouth stretch past his canines so Borgin could get a good look at them as he spoke. "Fenrir Greyback."

All the colour left the wizard's face. The urge to laugh was almost overwhelming, but Fenrir rather suspected that Mr Borgin might faint if he did. An unconscious wizard might be amusing, but it was only going to extend the amount of time they had to spend in the shop.

"Listen to me, _Mr Borgin_ ," said Fenrir, the formality rolling off his tongue mockingly, "I require some items from you. I do not care if they are reserved. I do not care if they are ready to be dispatched at this very moment. I want them, and I am going to have them before I leave your shop. Do you understand me?"

Borgin nodded, looking pained, and Fenrir grinned, having caught the look of horror on the young Malfoy's face from the corner of his eyes.

"I'm glad. Now, this is what I need."

It was a mere ten minutes later that Fenrir and Draco left the shop, the items in hand — specifically, Draco's hand. If the boy had to come along, he might as well be put to good use. They were in no rush this time, but the success of his negotiations in the dark little shop was enough to spur him on to try and get back to Malfoy Manor as quickly as possible. The Dark Lord would surely be pleased with him.

"Hurry, boy!" barked Fenrir, trying to get Draco to stop his shuffling once again. He had known the boy was pathetic, but honestly, if he couldn't do a simple pick-up job, what would he do when it came to something truly dangerous?

There was no change in his pace, and Fenrir turned back to face him. He could only just see the wizard's sullen face over the top of the parcels he was carrying.

"Did you not hear me? I said hurry, not shuffle, you imbecile!" roared Fenrir.

This time, the young Malfoy lurched forward in his haste to catch up with the werewolf. If the boy was ever put in his charge again, Fenrir thought, the Dark Lord would surely be expecting Fenrir to kill him. He didn't have the patience to 'supervise'. Although, he did have to admit that it was amusing to exercise his power.

The sky was an inky-black by the time they reached Malfoy Manor, and Fenrir had resorted to shoving the young Malfoy every couple of steps to hurry him. His legs were shorter than Fenrir's, so even his quickened strides could not keep up with the older man.

Never before had Fenrir made any attempt to contain a transformation, and his skin was crawling with the unnatural sensation of suffocating his natural instincts. It was maddening; he felt as if he could tear his own skin to shreds and still the irritation would not cease.

In an attempt to push past the feeling, Fenrir strode forward, but the movement caused a bolt of what felt like lightning to shoot up his leg, forcing a howl from him.

Draco stumbled forwards, spinning round simultaneously to look at Fenrir with a mixture of shock and horror on his normally sullen, porcelain face. It spoke volumes that Fenrir couldn't even bring himself to be smug about eliciting such a reaction from the boy.

Instead, he ground out, from between teeth he could already feel growing, stretching and tearing his gums, "Get inside!"

But the boy's efforts were futile. The sheer horror of the sight before him had him stumbling backwards in shock, and Fenrir knew there wasn't any way Draco was going to make it inside in time at this rate. He was going to have to take matters into his own hands.

 _As always_ , his mind added as an afterthought.

A roar tore itself from his throat as he lunged forward; the sheer effort of holding back his transformation caused what felt like every muscle in his body to cramp up. Scooping up Draco with a sweep of his arm, Fenrir cringed as he heard the sound of fabric tearing and felt a dull sort of tug at his nails. He charged forwards, distance not an issue for his elongated legs. He was metres away from the door when it opened to reveal Narcissa Malfoy. Practically throwing Draco into his mother's arms, Fenrir bounded away, allowing his transformation to take over.

It was the closest thing to relief he could have experienced at that moment in time. A howl escaped him, and it was all that felt right.

Fenrir awoke the next day, limbs aching like they never had before after a full moon. It took mere moments for him to register his surroundings.

Black walls surrounded him, light from some source glinting off them and making him squint. This was the Dark Lord's "consultation room". Events from the night before flashed through his mind, and he cringed at the thought of the punishment awaiting him for endangering the young noble.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he heard the sound of a quiet clicking on the floorboards. Fenrir cringed, recognising the sound, but knowing that turning around would aggravate the situation.

The footsteps stopped. "Crucio," said a hoarse whisper.

And this time, an entirely different sort of howl was pulled from his throat.

What felt like hours later, but could have been days, Fenrir was finally dragged from the consultation room by his arms and left outside the door. Limping awkwardly, every step bringing a new rush of pain, he hauled himself up to his chambers in the manor. He winced as he analysed the state of his bloodied and torn attire. Picking off the scraps of fabric, Fenrir dipped his head to lick his wounds, but something caught his eye.

Slowly lifting his head, for if he jarred it he couldn't imagine how much noise he was going to make, Fenrir turned around slowly to scan the torn parchment on his bed. Moving his eyes left, right, and left again to ensure no one could see what he was doing, Fenrir picked up the parchment and unravelled it, reading two simple words:

 _Thank you._


End file.
